Ghost Lights by Lydia Millet (classic fiction txt) 📕

dog, there what seemed to be a raccoon.

“You know anything about a military incursion into the jungle down there, by the way?” he asked Brady.

“Come again?”

“A military incursion.”

“Whose military?”

“Ours.”

“When?”

“I think maybe yesterday. Or the day before.”

Brady laughed abruptly.

“Uh, that’d be a no.”

“I think there was one, though.”

“I’d know. Trust me. This is a very small country.”

“I heard they were doing a flyover. Some alleged guerrilla camp of Mayans, from over the border.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“If you say so.”

“Who told you this, anyway?”

Hal looked away from him to his own side of the road. There were flat, ugly fields stretching out beside him to the east, while to the west rose the low mountains.

“A German schoolteacher,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Long story.”

“I’m all ears. We still got half an hour to go.”

Hal told him about the armed forces, the boat trip, the hike. He told him what Hans had said as he lay down on the boat’s bench at the end, his stomach full of warm liquid.

“Aural hallucinations. Fatigue can do that to you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“But then what about what his wife said? Yesterday?”

“Guy sounds like a weapons hobbyist. Maybe he likes to spin tales to impress the little lady.”

“Huh,” said Hal. “I don’t know, Jeff. I mean he did bring the Marines to me.”

Then it struck him that this discussion might be impairing his credibility. He should change the subject.

But Brady did it for him.

“What do you do, anyway? Stateside?”

Hal was surprised. He was sure he had mentioned it.

“IRS.”

“Kidding.”

“Why, you delinquent?”

“My brother works at the Service Center in Austin.”

“Government service runs in your family, huh?”

“That and gallbladder problems.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

By the time they got off the highway and headed into Belize City he felt reasonably confident that Brady was won over. He had recognized, in Brady, the cynical posture of high-waisted Rodriguez. And by treating Brady essentially as he treated Rodriguez—as though they were brothers-in-arms, jaded yet hearty mercenaries in civil service’s trench warfare—he was in the process of securing Brady’s confidence.

He coughed, breathing exhaust fumes as they made their way down a narrow street behind a rickety pickup full of bags of garbage.

“No unleaded gas around here,” said Brady. “Not yet. Pity. OK. Not far now.” He pulled into a parking space abruptly and braked. “Here we go. Follow me, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“Draconian.”

“Only because I’ve been in the situation. Trust me.”

As it happened Hal was made to wait in the lobby, near a uniformed guard standing beside a young woman’s desk, while Brady was ushered into the interior. The chairs were uncomfortable, the walls gray and the ceilings low. On a bulletin board was a picture of a wanted man with a banner above his head: FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE. Beneath, three headings: DESCRIPTION. CAUTION. REWARD.

For a second it seemed to Hal that Belize was an outpost of America. It had been British Honduras, previously. But the British were nowhere.

An overhead fan whirred, the blades ticking monotonously against the dangling chain, but did little to aerate the room.

He wished he had a glass of ice water.

Finally Brady came out again, a portly man in shirtsleeves beside him, sweat stains under his arms.

“Hal, Jorge Luis. Hal Lindley, U.S. Internal Revenue Service.”

They shook. The man’s hand was faintly greasy. Hal’s own was probably just as bad.

“Mr. Stern is not here yet,” said Jorge, in English that was unaccented and fluent. “He’s being transported overland. They should be getting in a little later.”

“We can come back,” said Brady. “We’ll have our interview then, and talk to the detective.”

“Do we know—”

“We’ll get the details then,” said Brady, smiling. “No problem.” He turned and shook Jorge’s hand.

Out on the street he told Hal not to seem overeager, that a casual attitude was best. Hal stopped on the sidewalk and turned to him, incredulous.

“Casual? Casual attitude? An innocent man’s languishing in prison! Who knows if the rule of law even holds? I mean do we even know if they have grounds for arresting him?”

Brady took him by the shoulder.

“The key is not to get overwrought. Trust me. Keep things low-key, unless we get indications there’s a hidden agenda. In that case, we’ll go in from a whole different angle. But there’s no sign of that yet. Best way to get him out quickly is to act like the stakes are low, like there’s no official anxiety. Act like we’re all on the same side. Because we are, basically. Walk softly, carry a big stick. Trust me.”

“Poker face. That’s what you’re saying?”

“More or less. Let’s go get some lunch. I know a nice little place right around the corner. Family runs it. Shall we?”

•

Lunch was jerk chicken they ate off paper plates on cheery red and green vinyl tablecloths. They washed down the chicken with tepid half-pints of watery beer, and afterward Hal retired to his hotel room, a relief. In the thick air the beer was making him feel heavy, his limbs difficult to lift.

He lay down on the coverlet, then thought of the bacteria Susan would assure him were writhing there—possibly even parasites such as crabs, which would take up residence in his pubic hair.

All right! Jesus.

He stood, pulled the coverlet off and lay down again on the cool top sheet. He was logy, but he was also restless. He missed Casey.

When she picked up the phone he felt drunker, suddenly, than he had since Gretel. It seemed all things were transparent, and who was he to pretend otherwise?

“I know about the phone sex,” he said.

“Shit,” said Casey.

“Yep. I do.”

“Huh,” said Casey. “What can I say. Sorry?”

“You’re not sorry,” he said. He was curious, actually. “You said you liked it. In the kitchen, to what’s her name. Who crochets the hideous multicolored afghans. And the baby booties.”

“Nancy.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, is my point. I’m your father.”

“Come on, Dad. You don’t want to know stuff like that. I mean really. Do you?”

He felt clean, miraculous. As though the details had no power over him. Everything was